


Closed Eyes

by evocates



Series: Closed Eyes [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DC Comics, Superman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark really shouldn’t have dropped into Gotham on this particular day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closed Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Sex pollen, hence dubcon. Take note.

There’s a sudden, strange new drug that’s been making the rounds of Gotham, lately. They called it Liquid Velvet, and it had been on the streets for four weeks. Four weeks, and there was a sudden spike in sexual assault and date rape cases being reported in three of those weeks. Especially since ‘Liquid Velvet’ was sold mostly in nightclubs and bars.

Batman didn’t believe in coincidences.

The crime lords in have been getting quite a bit of income from it, which was another reason for him to crack down on its sales. The Mission would be entirely jeopardised if crime started being _profitable_ again, after all.

And as far as Bruce knew, it wasn’t from the docks. The surveillance equipment he had installed all over the waters had picked up no strange, unregistered boats or unconventional behaviour – unconventional for Gotham anyway, where even the most honest of sailors act like they have something to hide. Besides, the lists of registered shipments that Barbara had sent him had shown no abnormalities either – they were just the regular shipments of fish, fruits, and even equipment and raw mechanical parts for Waynetech and other companies. Jim Gordon and his crew had been searching the shipments infrequently as well.

Of course, that was far less thorough than Batman needed to be. Bruce had staked out near the docks for three days running, watching the sailors and dock workers through his cowl. They knew he was watching – they always could, nowadays – but though they seemed more jumpy than usual there was no evidence that the drugs were coming through the docks.

Which meant that they could be coming through by land – Gotham, after all, didn’t have her own airport, and any flights over the city would be spotted far too easily for them to be used for rug smugglings. But Bruce had been watching the land routes by surveillance for the past few nights, and there was no hint of that either.

This meant that the drug had to be made in Gotham itself.

Sometimes Bruce viciously disliked his city.

The problem, then, was where the drugs were coming _from_ , and where were they being delivered. To solve the first problem, he needs to solve the second. And to solve the second, he needs to catch the person who is distributing the drugs.

That was why Bruce was on this particular rooftop on this particular hot, humid Gotham night. The shadows draped themselves around his shoulders and back, dipping playfully into his cape, into his armour, hiding him in their soft, nebulous embrace. Across the road is a major drug lord’s house, and Bruce had not moved from this spot for three hours.

But he had patience. He could wait the whole night, if he had to. Tim and Dick and Barbara had the rest of Gotham covered – Bruce could devote all of his time to this case, and so he would. His eyes narrowed – just a little longer.

There was a sudden shift, cold, wet air beside him, stirring the shadows. They retreat, blurry fingers against his cape and armour. Then, there’s the sound of cloth shuffling against leather, loud as a firecracker going off in the dead silence.

“Superman,” he said, and his voice was like a whip snapping in the air. Less of a greeting than the moniker being spat out, like a weapon. “Go away.”

Superman hovered beside him, his uniform – in its bright, near-garish primary colours – shone against the dim, hazy Gotham lights. He blinked, then smiled wide and cheerful at Bruce as if he didn’t hear the order or the threat beneath.

“I was looking for you,” he said, conversationally. A moment passed, and Bruce turned back to stare at the front door of the house in front of him. He heard Clark land on the roof, and moving silently until he was almost entirely behind Bruce.

So that anyone who was looking up from the direction of that house would not be able to see him. Bruce’s eyebrow twitched, just a little. He had no doubts that Clark could hear it.

“What do you want, Clark?”

“To help,” he said, as if it was just that simple.

“I told you to stay out of Gotham,” Bruce’s answer was nothing more than a snarl.

“You did, but this is my business too.” He paused. But when it was clear that Bruce wasn’t going to answer him, he continued, conversationally. “Metropolis is just over the river. There’s reason to believe that whatever drug is being distributed in Gotham might end up over there eventually, so I might as well help you stop that from ever happening.”

Sound logic. Contrived, but still sound.

“And what,” Bruce said, not bothering to turn around, “makes you think that I _want_ your help?”

“Nothing,” Clark blinked. “But I want to, anyway.”

Basically: he was going to help, no matter what. Bruce growled again, sharp but still under his breath, before he turned around to watch the house again. Silence fell over the both of them, then—

“A van is approaching,” Clark whispered, and Bruce didn’t need to turn around to know that he was cocking his head to the side. “Just a mile or so off.”

Nodding, he stood up, concentrating as he relaxed his body’s muscles to prevent them from tensing. He watched as the van curved in from the corner; watched as a man came out from the house to greet the delivery; watched as the back of the van opened.

Clever: they stored the drugs in soft toys. Teddy bears that were then packed in transparent boxes with wheels. It was a classic trick, and Bruce almost smirked – he loved it when criminals were predictable.

“Looks like they are getting into the Christmas spirit,” Clark said, behind him. “In July.”

The teddy bears had little Santa hats on them. Bruce snorted quietly, and then stood. He drew out his grappling gun, and shot it over the next building. Swung down.

The criminals looked up immediately, their eyes wide and mouth open.

“Batman! It’s—”

Bruce kicked out, knocking the gun out of the drug lord’s hand even as he announced Batman’s presence to the world. Dropping down onto the ground, Bruce turned around just in time to punch a thug in the face even as more of them burst out of the van. The sounds of many guns cocking at the same time nearly masked the sound of Clark’s feet as he dropped from the roof, but nothing could mask his presence. Even with his back turned towards him, Bruce could feel it.

The thugs reacted predictably.

“Why is Superman—?”

“My God!”

“Shoot them!” the leader shouted, as he dove downwards to try to grab his gun. Bruce ducked against a shot, grabbing the man’s wrist as he twisted it back, breaking it while kicking his gun out of his reach. The drug lord screamed, and Bruce grabbed him by his collar and picked him up, throwing him bodily at his men, sending many of them falling down like dominos.

Really, he didn’t need Clark’s help at all.

A shot rang out into the air, and then a quieter sound as it bounces off Superman’s chest into the container holding the drugs. It burst open. More shots; and bullets ricochet and pierce through the teddy bears, sending clouds of white billowing into the air.

Looks like he was right, after all.

“I thought they would have learnt better by now,” Clark said, and he didn’t even sound winded. Neither was Bruce, really – it was just a couple of mobsters. He walked over to the leader, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him up against the side of the van.

Around them, the drug continued to swirl slightly. Bruce shook his head – the drug worked orally, so there should be no danger.

“Who are you working for?” he growled, his hand tightening around the collar of the mobster’s collar.

“Nobody! I’m—” casually, slowly, Bruce took the man’s unbroken wrist and held it very gently in his hands.

“Tell. Me.” he leaned in, growled the words low and deadly in that man’s face.

“Batman,” Clark said, coming up behind him. The thug’s eyes flitted from Bruce’s cowl to Superman’s face, and for a moment he looked almost _hopeful_. Probably thinking that Superman was going to save him from Batman.

“It’ll be rather hard for you to snap this poor man’s wrist with just one hand,” Superman said, and he was looking at him, smiling. “Would you let me help?”

The thug’s face paled rather considerably. Bruce empathetically did not smirk. He knew that Clark wouldn’t do it, but it didn’t mean that the thug knew.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Just don’t- don’t hurt me! I didn’t _make_ this!”

Make. So he was right – the drug was manufactured in Gotham itself.

“Who did?” he snarled.

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen her! But that crazy girl who always hangs around the Joker – she’s always there! She grabbed me off the streets and gave me this and told me to sell it!”

Harley Quinn. Which meant...

Bruce pulled the thug closer to him, “Don’t ever sell this again.” Then, before the man could reply, he slammed him against the van – just hard enough to send him to unconsciousness.

He turned around, hand around reaching for the gas mask. If this was indeed Poison Ivy... “Superman, we have to get out of here. The drug is Ivy’s handiwork, so it is possible—”

Bruce didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence before _he_ was being unceremoniously slammed against the side of the van himself. His eyes narrowed behind the cowl as he looked up – Clark’s pupils were dilated, and his lips were wet as he licked them, and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.

The drug would only take effect if ingested orally. Like _hell_.

“Superman— _Clark_ ,” Bruce said, and he talked to try to distract the other man from his hand as he reached for the Kryptonite right in his utility belt. “Clark, this is Ivy’s drug. It causes increased sexual arousal—”

“Bruce,” Clark said, and his voice was thick and heavy with arousal and damn it all, Bruce could feel his own heart beating faster. His finger had flipped open the compartment of the belt, and Clark was wincing slightly. Good, now he just had to take it out—

But Clark was fast, superhumanly fast and Bruce gritted his teeth as he felt his wrists being grabbed together and held above his head. It was such a tight grip that he knew if he was just a little less strong, the bones and tendons would be broken already. But he struggled anyway, trying to break out of the hold, tugging and pulling and it was _painful_ – but the pain was useful because it distracted him from the creeping heat, from the pleasure that was curling up from the base of his stomach...

It was just his pleasure receptors being stimulated, he thought. He could get past this, he just need to concentrate and _think_.

“Bruce,” Clark said again, and he sounded so desperate, voice tight and wrung out. He dropped his head down, and his grip was loosening— _good_ —and Bruce struggled harder, trying to get out of his grasp.

“Clark, think about Lois,” Bruce urged even as his own arousal built, as his breaths came faster and his words threatened to trip over themselves. It was just chemical reactions within his body, he told himself. It was just the stimulation of the reticular activating system, which sent a flood of hormones throughout his body and he could _get through this_ he just needed Clark to think and stop holding him down. “Think about your _wife_. You need to get home to her.”

“Lois,” Clark said, and suddenly his eyes were burning and his body surged forward, an arm punching through the side of the van before his lips landed on Bruce’s, so hard that his teeth shook. It was barely a kiss, clumsy and unrefined and Bruce had kissed people better than this as Matches Malone, but the brief touch of their lips was enough to pipe liquid fire through his veins, and Bruce was inhaling sharp and harsh.

It took Bruce a moment to realise that Clark was muttering against his lips, that he was saying something because his words were so garbled.

“I can’t control my powers. Everything is— I’m trying to not crush you but I need.” There was a gasp, like a drowning man, and Clark’s pupils were completely blown, black and huge on his face, and his neck was rapidly being consumed by red. He leaned in even further, thrusting his hips forward and it was all too clear what it was that he needed. It was hot as a brand, searing against his thigh. “ _Bruce_ , I need—I have to—”

“Let my hands go,” Bruce said, because if Clark did, then he could get the ring and get away from how the other man was practically crushing him against the vehicle. But Clark shook his head rapidly; hair flying into his eyes and hips were thrusting forward again and again. His mouth was open and he was panting hard, eyes almost mindless and Bruce would prefer that he _was_ mindless right now.

Then at least Clark was just trying to kill him, instead of doing... this.

Bruce bucked upwards, his own erection growing as Clark’s lips and teeth move from his lips to his jaw, just trailing downwards but he knew he was going to have a trail of bruises. Skin broke where Clark had kissed, but Bruce ignored the small, stabbing pains, leaning backwards as much as he could as he lifted a leg, pressed his knee against Clark’s covered erection and _rubbed_.

“You,” Clark’s inhale was hot against his own neck, and his one leg on the ground was trembling. But he rubbed upwards again, and Clark let loose a low, guttural _groan_ and the sight of him sent another shot of arousal down Bruce’s spine, and he spent a moment telling himself that it was just the drug. Just the drug; not anything to do with the fact that Clark looked absolutely beautiful like this. Out of control and shaking with desire—for Bruce.

And he couldn’t think anymore, could barely breathe as Clark’s hand surged forward, pressing him even further against the van before darting down. His other hand still pinning Bruce’s wrists down, he pulled down his own tights. A moment, two, as Bruce’s hips bucked forward and he didn’t know if he was chasing more stimulation or trying to get free before Clark’s hand ran down the front of his armour, tearing it to pieces like it was paper.

Then, he pressed so close to him that Bruce could feel his heartbeat, and started to _rut_. Thrusting forward, against Bruce’s thighs, against’ Bruce’s cock, and the sensation was almost too much.

“I can’t touch you,” Clark said, his words shredded by his breathing. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Let my wrists go,” Bruce commanded- or tried to command, anyway, because Batman’s commanding voice didn’t work very well when he could barely breathe. “I promise I won’t get the ring.”

Because he didn’t think that it would work. Not at this point.

He felt more than heard Clark’s assent, and all of the sudden his hands could move again. Bruce gritted his teeth, nearly bit down on his tongue as he reached down, grasping both of their erections in his hand and starting to stroke.

A little too harsh, a little too fast, the pace almost _punishing_ and he told himself that it was because of the drug that he could not drag his eyes away from Clark’s face – the desire in his eyes, the way he was biting down on the wet, gleaming lower lip, the heat of his breath...

It was just the drug.

When Clark came, he punched another wall through the side of the van, and his shaking was almost enough to break half the bones of Bruce’s body. But Bruce only gritted his teeth, tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut as he forced himself over the edge. He didn’t want to see Clark’s face when he came. He had enough material to haunt his nightmares already.

And he let his eyes remain close even as he heard Clark’s breathing slowly even out. Starting to regulate his own breaths as well, Bruce let himself run through the physiological process of orgasm, starting from the brain down to the his groin, and did not let himself linger on the fact that his fingers and toes were tingling. Those were not the usual responses, so, really, he wasn’t feeling them.

It was probably a side effect of the drug; worth investigating about later on.

He exhaled when Clark finally pulled away, and the stale, humid Gotham air immediately rushed between the two of them. Bruce could feel his sweat on his skin, feel every bruise on his body; feel the cold air on his thighs, on his cock. He didn't look at Clark.

“Bruce,” Clark said, and Bruce knew that he was going to apologise. He could see it in Clark’s eyes, in the guilt that lingered there. He didn’t look deeper, because he didn’t want to see the shame.

“Go home, Clark,” he said, turning around. He grabbed his own cape, pulling it off where it joined with the cowl, and used a corner of it to wipe himself down before using the rest to wrap around himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clark blow cold air on himself, and then used the condensation to clean up.

“I—”

“Go home to Lois,” he said, interrupting, and didn’t turn around even as he readied his grapple gun. He would use the communicator to contact Jim later, after he got his breath and heart rate under full control again. “She’ll be waiting for you.”

Then, he turned around, fixing Clark with a cold, cold look.

“This never happened.”

“Is that what you want, Bruce?” Clark asked, and Bruce forced himself to not analyse his tone.

 _I wish this had never happened in the first place. I wish—what I wish isn’t worth the words used to think about it._ That and it would be a reminder he didn’t need and didn’t want.

“Yes.”

“Alright,” a breath. “Good night, Batman.”

He nodded sharply before turning away, shooting out a line to head back to the Cave. Then, he swung away.

And didn’t look back.

 _End_


End file.
